


Bedside Manner

by nox_candida



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, Depression, Funeral Home, Multi, Murder, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 20:49:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1661978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From an anonymous prompt: "John is a depressed undertaker who pays penance for all those he killed by shutting himself off in his work and taking good care of his clients."  Funeral Home AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedside Manner

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for depression, the implication of (serial) murder, and some (more than likely) out of character behavior.

"Johnny!" Harry calls out to him, from the front desk. "We got a delivery in the back. See to it, will you?"

John Watson sighs and scrubs at his face. It's not like his schedule spreadsheet is going anywhere soon. "Sure," he calls out, before taking a deep breath and clutching at his crutch and struggling into a standing position.

His feet shuffle across the lino in his office, his rubber souled shoes squeaking and squelching rhythmically. He nods to Molly, their new assistant, as he passes her desk before reaching the delivery entrance and sharing a greeting with Anderson.

"Doctor Watson," the man says gruffly, shoving a sheaf of forms in triplcate for him to sign. Without a clipboard, naturally, so John merely sighs once again before searching around him for a flat surface to sign on.

He eventually is forced to use the wall as Anderson takes that moment to come hustling past him with Donovan, both of them carrying the new delivery.

John grumbles to himself as he stumbles and almost loses his footing; instead of taking his frustration out on the drivers, though, he vents his spleen at his leg, his fucking useless leg which tempts him with moments of hope, only to ultimately let him down.

Two nights ago it had worked perfectly, but now in the light of day, when it would be bloody useful to have a functioning leg, nothing.

John shakes his head and awkwardly turns around, ignoring the rigid and pained muscles in his thigh, to begin the walk back towards his office. He only takes a few steps, however, before Anderson and Donovan’s return bring him to a stop.

He pulls the duplicates apart and hands the pink copies over to Donovan silently, liking her far more than her abrasive partner. He takes a moment to tuck the originals into his pockets and returns the small smile she sends him. Anderson merely rolls his eyes and stomps back to the delivery room.

"Rough shift?" John asks, voice soft with understanding.

She shrugs. "Had a dust up with his wife right before work, apparently. She called the cops, they threatened to arrest him, and then his wife started sobbing and refused to press charges. I could go on," she says, her lips twisted into a bitter half-smile and the dim lighting of the hallway making her complexion look sallow and pale, "but I'd rather not. It's all he's complained about for hours."

John shakes his head and places a hand gently on her shoulder. He thinks about telling her that she could do so much better for herself, that she's bright and smart and interesting and there are men out there who would truly appreciate her as she deserves, but it will fall on deaf ears. Oh, she may nod and agree, say, 'I know, you're right,' but she will leave his sight to return to Anderson and fall right back into the same pattern, the familiar tracks of her life that she's grown accustomed to, back to the embrace of the known. He's seen it happen far too many times to think mere words will make a difference.

Instead, he merely offers her a sympathetic smile and a friendly squeeze of her shoulder. Donovan smiles at him as he lets his hand fall back to his side; her muscles, shoulders, and body relaxing minutely from the momentary display of support. "Take care," he tells her and her smile twists ever so slightly.

"Thanks, Doc. See you next time."

She follows in Anderson's footsteps and John pats at his pockets absentmindedly, watching her leave. It's a true shame to see such a wonderful woman locked relentlessly in the orbit of a man like Anderson.

Shaking his head, he continues his slow trudge to the small, sterile refridgerated room used to prepare their clients. He almost runs into Molly, who is awaiting him right outside of the door.

"What do we have today, Doctor Watson?" she asks him, stepping aside to allow him to precede her into the room.

John halts for a moment, transfering his crutch to his other hand to rifle through his pockets. When he locates the paperwork, he gives it a quick glance before pushing open the door. "Overdose, looks like," he replies, his eyes scanning until stopping on the name of the deceased. He frowns and then glances towards the corpse waiting on the table in the centre of the room. "Oh dear..."

Molly glances up at his tone of voice, her eyes widening. "What is it?"

He sighs and tucks the paperwork back into his coat, turning to Molly and blocking her from the room. "Molly," he begins, and trails off, at a loss.

"Doctor Watson?" her voice trembles, her eyes wide.

"I'm so sorry," he says heavily, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "It's Jim Moriarty."

Molly's quiet gasp echoes eeriely in the dimly lit corridor. "Jim?" she asks, her voice quavering, crackling like brittle glass. "Fr-from the bakery?"

"I'm sorry," John repeats, closing his arms around the poor woman and comforting her as best he can. He holds her as she breaks, her tears and sobs quiet and wrenching. There's something about hearing them like this, in the half-dark, that makes them small and tragic.

John listens to her try to speak, to say that they had just gone on a date a week ago and they were set to go on another that very night--John knows, he'd seen the brightness of the girl's smile, had the requested time off marked down on his calendar for the next day--and it just _couldn't be_.

When the tears wind down some, when Molly inhales a deep shuddering breath, as though trying to right the world that has turned on its axis, he ushers her past the prep room and takes her to Harry, begging his sister to take the poor girl home and that of course he can manage the front while they're gone.

After securing Harry's agreement, he carefully shepherds Molly to the employee break room--where they keep their personal items--and waits with her while Harry settles things up front.

"Poor thing," Harry says, her dress shoes clicking and clacking on the hard floor as she comes up behind him. When John looks over at her, she looks concerned and upset. "She was really smitten with him."

John nods, keeping his sorrowful gaze on the heartbroken woman. "Stay with her for a bit, will you? At least until she can get someone to her flat to stay with her."

"Sure, yes," Harry says, eyes still locked on Molly. "I rung Clara up; she'll be over by noon if I'm not back to give you a break."

"Thanks," John offers, sighing.

Harry shoots him a quick look. "Don't you go hangdog on me, Johnny."

"I'll be fine," he assures her, though the look on her face is dubious at best. "I will."

"Of course," she says with a sigh of her own, then moves forward to lead Molly out to her car. John shuffles behind and watches them leave and then, after Harry's car has driven off, he watches the rain for a moment. Off in the distance, he thinks he hears thunder, but he tries to shake off his melancholy.

He still has a job to do, after all.

He walks back towards the prep room, pausing to spare a short glance for the crutch that, in all the excitement, he left leaning against the hallway wall. He ponders it for a moment, snorts at himself, and then grabs it and carries it into the room where he sets it down to be near to hand should he find himself needing it again.

Damn leg.

Shaking his head at himself, John approaches the body on two legs that are currently functioning properly. Jim's pale, twisted face greets him, unnatural bruises littering his face where blood has pooled and settled.

The body has been cleaned of vomit and now smells more of disinfectant than anything else, but as John leans closer, he can smell the sickly sweet smell of decay. If left to its own devices, that smell would grow overwhelming in a short amount of time, but this body will not be left to its own devices.

It will be in John's capable hands, left by the fates to his tender mercies.

"Oh dear," he murmurs, gloved fingers tracing the discolouration and the lines that rigor mortis have etched into cold, dead flesh.

"I didn't think to see you again, Mr Moriarty," John continues, taking a step back and digging through his pockets to once again look at the delivery papers. 

"Ah, it says here that your husband is requesting an open casket." John pauses and smiles down at his charge. "Well, I think we can accomodate that. It will take a bit of work, and I'll need you to cooperate, but you'll look wonderful at your viewing.

"Of course," he continues, once again moving away from the corpse, but this time to slip on the protective wear that he dons when working with the dead, "this could all have been avoided had you taken the necessary precautions.

"You were already married," John scolds, snapping his gloves into place and then moving forward and staring down into Jim Moriarty's face. "No need to bother our Molly, was there?" He sighs and then sprays disinfectant over the body. John then waits, watching the beeds of moisture soak into the waxy skin.

"I did tell you," he says as he waits for the disinfectant to dry so that he can work on loosening Jim's muscles and setting his face. "But you just wouldn't listen."

He pauses for a moment, lost in thought. It had been a dark night and Jim had been so very young and defiant.

John sighs. "Well. What's done is done. Nothing can change the past, no matter how much we might wish it to be changed."

The body isn't ready yet, but that doesn't stop John from moving closer and looking down into the face of the late Jim Moriarty. "I suppose these things just happen sometimes," he says softly, and he remembers the bitter twist of a smile on Donovan's features and the gruff arrogance that Anderson always treats her with, as if he's completely confident that she will always trail behind in his wake.

He shakes his head and smiles kindly down at Jim's face, moving his hands to begin massaging the rigid rictus of his mouth into a more suitable expression. "I certainly didn't intend to see you again," he says once more, a promise in his voice, "but now that you're here, I'll take good care of you."


End file.
